


cosmic ash & ancient names

by whalesong_and_bones



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Low Chaos Emily Kaldwin, M/M, Multi, Not Beta Read, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, best trope ever, flesh and steel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:08:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25005937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalesong_and_bones/pseuds/whalesong_and_bones
Summary: The child which would eventually become the Outsider had been born with a myriad of marks covering his body.Soulmate!AU where the Outsider has the names of the people he will mark etched upon his body.
Relationships: Emily Kaldwin/The Outsider, The Outsider/Everyone
Comments: 1
Kudos: 32





	cosmic ash & ancient names

The coming on to somebody's destined name is considered a sign of adulthood, celebrated with dance and song and overflowing spirits - if you are lucky enough, a wedding on the same day. That would not be the case for Him.

Hidden underneath layers of threading shirts he had grown out of summers ago, and stolen jackets, lay a litany of strange symbols. Twirling around his collarbone was a curved bow, which was attached to other arcane symbols sloping to his shoulder. His back was stained from the neck to his thighs. His forearms did not get spared either, but he was relieved to the fact that his hands were bare. Having one's destined name appear hurts enough, but he was glad he had no memory of the marks appearing. He had only been a new-born, after all.

Years ago, his mother had told him that the village elders proclaimed his marks to be a sign of the end times, and had begged her to leave the child to the elements. She did not. Her punishment for disobedience had been a swift death. He had barely managed to escape unscathed.

He did not have a name, or rather, he'd never learnt it. Mother had baptized him, in secret, in a dirty creek with an elderly crone acting as a sole witness, but had never referred to him as "boy" or "child". He picked the dirt from under his nails. If any of these arcane marks belonged to his destined one, he'd probably never know about them.

The village elders had become desperate to find him. He had managed to hide successfully for many years. With his mother, then later with the elderly witch, before she had wasted away. He managed to get by on petty theft, but a small village could tolerate so much before even the kindest proprietors had turned on him.

There was a monastic order in the mountains, which worship a dead god. Would they turn him away for his unusual curse? Surely, a small chance would be worth more than slowly dying of starvation. He looked at his meagre possessions - he would travel light, just the clothes on his back - maybe they'll believe his sincerity if he'd renounce all worldly things?

He could hear the procession slowly moving into the temple - the daily service will begin soon. The entire population would be there. That is when he would make his way out and into the wilderness.

If he does not reach the mountains in time, maybe the wolves would be merciful when they put him out of his misery.

\--------------------

The Outsider would find it interesting, in retrospect, that the simple act of desiring a crumb of bread would lead him to his would-be killers. Oh, but they were careful when he had stumbled upon them, crazed and delirious after days of eating moss of the trees and drinking rain-water. After a life-time of near-starvation, he was fed the sweetest meats, smoked gently over a blessed fire. Only later would he know that they had seen the strange markings on his flesh as he was bathing and realized he was the one that would grant them access to the magic they craved.

He thought he was being induced in their order, months after finding their encampment. In hindsight, maybe he should have seen that their honeyed words were laced with poison. His throat was cut, and he became a God.

The markings on his skin did not go away. In the first couple decades of his tenure, between bouts of Void-induced madness, he would examine them carefully. He had memorized their slopes, their shapes, their sharp curves by heart. As kingdoms rose and fell, he realized he would start deciphering their meaning - they were names, albeit written in languages which are yet to evolve.

The first person that he marked had been a woman named Chepkirui, two hundred years into his godhood. She was a tall Pandyssian beauty, who had wielded her father's spear proudly against the invaders threatening her homestead. She had used her Mark to bring storms upon the desserts and created a prosperous kingdom from bickering tribes. She had turned from a lithe youth, destined to die in childbirth into a warrior queen. She died on the apex of her 40th summer from the sting of a fly. His name did not mar her skin, she was already bonded to another by the time he had taken notice of her.

He felt Chepkirui die. He felt her lungs seize and the air being cut off. The Outsider felt her barely audible pleas of mercy like electricity against his skin. What he did not expect was the aftermath of her passing - oil, black as the obsidian that surrounded him, would streak his cheeks. Was he complicit for her death? Did he kill his named by sharing some of his powers? Did he hold affection for her? He would spend years pondering this, and arrive at no conclusion. His heart would stop aching, and the world would become interesting again to distract him from his inner thoughts. What the Outsider did find out later, decades after she had died, her name no longer stained the inside of his knee.

The next named he would encounter would teach him to not get involved in mortal affairs. He was a most handsome man, name pronounceable only by the roars of a thrashing sea. Black scales covered his body, his tail akin to one of the spires in the forgotten places of the Void. When the Outsider met him, he was untouched by another name, but certainly an adult by the standards of the merfolk. His eyes were pale moonstones, which would fluoresce in the deepest trenches of the ocean. He would sing him the sweetest songs. His lips tasted like salt and blood. He would be caught in a net and gutted like a fish by the ancestral people of the Tyvia.

The Outsider's grief had almost destroyed the land. Deadly snowstorms would haunt the small island all year round, the crops that would've sustained them frozen. The air itself had become poison, suffocating smoke which would rip you to shreds from the inside. When he regained his senses, the island had submerged into a state of eternal winter, and not even the hardiest of people could withstand the climate. Innocents - like he was, once. He would blunt himself for their sakes.

So, centuries would pass. His named would come and go, accepting his mark, for better or for worse. Sometimes he'd offer his gifts to others - those whose future had been strange and uncertain. He had not seen his name appear on any of them. Slowly, year by year, he would learn the meaning on all the names littering his flesh - ever slower, they would disappear. He could not foresee what will happen once all of them were gone.

\--------------------

The Empire of the Isles was experiencing a technological surge, and the Outsider had only a handful of names left. It had not been the first time he had witnessed an Empire rise so fast, only to fall and crash back into the dark ages. Alas, it would probably be the last - maybe it's destruction would be so glorious it would take it's only apt audience with her into the darkness of the Void.

Daud's name had slowly started disappearing from his skin - written in a sharp script, between his fourth and fifth left rib. The youth had seemed interesting enough - an up-and-coming student of the natural sciences by daylight, and securing his education by night time. Murder has been, by far, not the most unusual way of funding one's learning, however, what did surprise the Outsider had been the way the young man selected his targets - he would not kill a man without sin. If his blade had to be stained, it would not be one of the innocents. How strange, how his principles would easily be forgone when the Royal Spymaster would bid high enough for his skill.

Vera Moray's name had disappeared in the last year, slowly washed away, akin to the high lady's sanity. It had not been the first time one of his marked had gone mad after receiving his gift. Quite the opposite - his marked tended to live fairly short lives, if they did not meet an unfortunate end at the end of the blade, then surely they would eventually go mad from the whispers. The Void, at it's essence, was a curious, almost chatty, entity. If it did not find an outlet through it's avatar, it would certainly sate it's desire for understanding through clueless mortals. The Outsider had certainly felt himself succumb to madness, and he was fairly sure he would join the ranks of those whose minds have been consumed by the Void soon enough.

Three more names are stained in his skin. Two men and a woman. He hoped he would meet them soon enough.

\--------------------

There was a certain beauty in chaos. The Void was a still painting, static and unchanging, completely lacking in excitement. Chaos, on the other hand, was encapsulated in the crescendo of an orchestral piece - instruments screaming in dissonant notes over the wild applause of an audience of one. Delilah's painting had portrayed it just as well - an overwhelming array of colours that followed no aesthetic rules, which blended into a beautiful vision.

One named remain, inscribed in neat, precise strokes, from his collarbone to his shoulder.

Corvo Attano.

An interesting man, seemingly a crow caught in the nest of a Pandyssian spiderant. With no evident way to escape, he had made his way out of Coldridge, a ghost made of flesh and blood. He would either become the falling piece which would collapse the entire house of cards, careening the entire Empire into darkness, or find a way to save his daughter, and everyone else, as a result.

Corvo reminded him of his oceanic lover. Tall, dark, his stance more imposing than the sword on his hip or the edge to his eyes. He had stopped taking his named as lovers millennia's ago - they would be lucky enough to pass into nothingness and rest, he would end up caring the burden of their passing far longer than their descendants would exist. Besides, the Outsider doubted Corvo would be terribly interested in bedding him either way - Jessamine's name was still inked on his wrist in elegant swirls of black.

He expected to feel something, when Corvo had accepted his mark. In the coming weeks, the ink had sloughed off into ash and floated off into the atmosphere of the Void, like it did before. The deposed Royal Protector had saved the city without spilling a drop of blood, and the Outsider still lived.

Interesting.

\--------------------

The Outsider is not easily surprised - a difficult task when one is capable of seeing all the possible paths a person could take. Delilah's return from the Void and subsequent immortality had certainly given him a stark reminder that he was still capable of bewilderment.

His realm, his home for centuries had been defiled by somebody unworthy of it's powers. The Outsider certainly had no qualms against abdicating his position - four millennia had certainly seemed a long enough tenure, however he would never give the position over to someone as lustful for power as Delilah. Thankfully, his goals managed to become aligned with that of a fellow monarch.

Emily Kaldwin had certainly changed in the 15 years since he had last seen her. Gone were the open eyes, enamoured with life and brimmed with innocence. The amber of her eyes was glassy and cold, as was beholden to an Empress. Cautiously transversing through the black-marbled surface of the Void, her footsteps light and soft, just like her father's. A predator lost in the territory of a much larger monster.

For once, he wished he could speak plainly to the woman. Tell her about Delilah's desire to overtake the Void and offer a partnership, of sorts. His self-imposed rules would not let him, his tongue would not form words fit to ask for help, his tone would maintain neutrality. He wondered if he was still capable of begging after his throat was cut.

He offered her his mark, like he did to her father before her. Emily mulled over his offer, far longer than Corvo ever did. She glanced at her left hand, unblemished and youthful.

"No. Whatever you are offering, I can make my own way," she answered, sternly.

He could not keep his bewilderment of his face. There had been others before, which had refused his gifts - people of the older faiths, which believed his mark would bring ruin. Emily had grown up with her father's stories of using his gift in the aid of the Empire, her distaste for the Abbey of the Everyman well-known. He had not foreseen this. "Another surprise," he said, bending his head slightly in a mocking courtesy, "so be it."

In the months following, while Emily had been busy unravelling the conspiracy piece by piece, the Outsider had spent his time scrutinizing her every move. She was prowling through Karnaca, silently, no blood every touching the edge of the blade. She would occasionally visit his shrines, fumbling in searching for runes to sell to the Black Market, but she'd never shy away from conversation with the Outsider in the quieter moments of her hunt. Her presence was like a balm upon his being - his wounds, courtesy of Delilah, would stop throbbing in her presence, her lilting voice putting the endless spiral of thoughts to a still.

It was upon one night, while waiting for the night to fall upon Serkonos, that Emily had confessed she had thought the destined names were myths. "I have never come into mine," she shrugged, comfortable in his presence. "Corvo's had long disappeared before I started thinking about them again, and the Abbey considers them to be of a degenerate nature," she continued.

He was well aware of the Overseers' opinions on them, with members of the order actively burning them off if they came into the names during their induction. Their little secret shame. "You'd be surprised to know how modern that belief is," he answered, leaning against the altar, his arms crossed against his chest. "The Abbey is certain I am the source of all magic, but that is the furthest thing from the true," he continued, Emily's attention entirely upon him. "They had been around long before I existed, and will probably be as long as the Void exist."

"Do you have one?" Emily asked, her voice soft, uncertain. Was she scared of the answer?

"No." Not a lie, per say, but it certainly held the same flavour on his tongue.

\--------------------

In her fantasy world, Delilah's destined name had been Breanna's, instead of that of a cruel man which had threatened to violate her when she had been but a student under Sokolov. The Outsider would find it difficult to hate the witch in the aftermath of her banishment into The World As It Should Be. Rather, he found himself emotions which he thought he had repressed early into his godhood. He would find himself watching the coupling of Delilah and Breanna and feel his being become tinged with envy.

In his many years, he would've hoped one of his named would've tried to rip him out of the Void, free him from his indentured godhood. There were certain aspects of humanity he had dearly missed - the warmth of the sun, the songs of the whales, undistorted by the winds ravaging the Void. But most, he earned for small affections, the soft touch of a lover's lips. The Void blunted everything he experienced, emotions would feel distanced, as if his anger, his indignation, his joy would not belong to him.

After the dust has settled in the Tower, Corvo had been freed from his frozen prison and explanations were given, he found Emily assembling a small shrine in the desecrated walls of the Safe Room.

"Are you regretting not accepting my mark, Your Majesty?" the Outsider asked, glancing over her handiwork. Sea-polished whalebones lovingly wrapped in twine and coins had taken the centre stage on what used to be a vanity overflowing with creams and powders. There was no purple cloth or whale oil lamps, but the soft blue brocade of an old bedsheet and wax candles.

"No, I don't regret it," Emily answered plainly, smoothing the fabric on the makeshift altar. "I just wanted to thank you properly before you lose your interest in me," she said, standing up to her full height. They were eye to eye, barely an arms length apart. Her body language had relaxed over the several months of their acquaintance, more overt now that she had secured her throne again. She wore a soft smile, a contrast to her battle-scuffled appearance, but nonetheless beautiful.

The Outsider caught himself. Beautiful? He had not considered humans such for many years. "And you've decided to show your thankfulness in performing heresy?" he asked, tone touching the border of sarcasm.

Emily scoffed, the corners of her mouth perking every so slightly. "No, I have very little means in contacting you any other way that would not alert the Abbey." She moved, half a step closer. He could smell her sweat underneath the cloying smell of the roses permeating the Tower. Reverently, slowly, as if approaching a wild animal, she placed her hand on his jaw. It was calloused, but sure in her grip. He thought he felt her thumb gently stroking his cheek. She glanced at his lips, her eyes half-moons of uncertainty. She bridged the gap between them, her lips petal-soft against his cheek.

She drew back, and gave him what could only be described as a mocking courtesy. "Thank you, Outsider."

There was a slow heat travelling from the cheek she had graced with her lips, down his throat and through to his chest. He had forgotten what affection felt like. This felt very close to it. "My outmost pleasure, Your Imperial Majesty."

\--------------------

On a pleasant evening, on the 16th Day of the Month of Darkness, months after the disillusionment of the Abbey of the Everyman, the city of Dunwall would start broadcasting a highly unusual announcement of the loudspeakers.

  
"Citizens of Dunwall, her Imperial Majesty is seeking a person named Nejdan Bogdan. Anyone in possession of such a name or possessing knowledge with the name is to report to the City Guard. May long she reign."

**Author's Note:**

> Nejdan Bogdan literally translated to "Not Expected Gift From God", sue me


End file.
